Held Without Asking [a poem]
I did not know
the earth remembered me—
that it bore the imprint of my faltering
and offered stillness
in place of shame.
Yet when I fell,
it did not withdraw.
It remained—
quiet, steadfast,
untouched by my forgetting.
I did not know
the earth remembered me—
that it bore the imprint of my faltering
and offered stillness
in place of shame.
Yet when I fell,
it did not withdraw.
It remained—
quiet, steadfast,
untouched by my forgetting.
When strength slips softly from your grasp—
not with anguish, but with quiet,
and the morning’s light, once golden,
arrives as a burden too delicate to bear—
let mercy meet you where you are.
Forgiveness does not arrive with thunder, nor does it seek to be seen.
It enters quietly, like mist upon a still lake at first light,
gathering in the hush where sorrow once settled,
softening the edges of what was once unyielding.
It does not contend with memory,
nor ask that pain be erased.
Instead, it moves beneath the surface of understanding,
loosening what has long been held,
and offering—without urgency—
a gentler way of remembering.
When the sky folds inward,
heavy with hush,
and your own reflection falters
beneath the dimming of its light—
when the remnants of yesterday
cling to the hollows of breath
like smoke in still air—
Be still.
Inhale not urgency,
but the quiet sanctity of grace.
Let the pause between heartbeats
speak what time cannot touch:
You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are becoming—still.